


so darkness I became

by FreshBrains



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Captivity, Confusion, Dark, Desperation, F/F, Hallucinogens, Introspection, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sad, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2022048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal brings Bedelia to see Abigail during her captivity.  All Abigail can see is an angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so darkness I became

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Femslash Friday](http://femslash-friday.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr

Abigail slips into something like a dream during those days-weeks-months under Hannibal’s care.  She still thinks of it as care; she can’t help it—Hannibal feeds her, buys her new clothes and books and an iPod, brushes out her hair after she bathes.  He’s got gentle hands, masculine but smooth, so unlike her father’s that she can close her eyes and dream that she’s in Sweden with Will and they’re fishing together in a cold river, smiles on their faces.

Of course, she’s a prisoner.  Hannibal isn’t really caring for her, he’s _keeping_ her.  She almost starved to death when she steadfastly refused to eat the meat he served her; he only gave her bread and vegetables after that.  She doesn’t speak to him while they eat, though Abigail’s always-locked basement bedroom is small and claustrophobic enough to make her want to fill it with inane chatter whenever he visits her.

“Do you need anything, Abigail?” He always asks, adjusting the cuffs of her pristine shirt.

“Will,” she always says, and he pauses for a moment before leaving the room and locking the door.

*

It takes Abigail days to realize she’s being fed Hannibal’s tea—she can taste it in the cooked asparagus and carrots he makes for her.  She smirks— _I bet he thinks he’s really pulling one over on me._

The tea makes time go faster.  Her small bedroom with the dusty pink walls and white quilts and stacks of books becomes a carnival, brimming with bright color and endless surprises, something new to discover every day.  The tea makes her laugh, it makes her cheeks warm, it makes her see light where there is endless darkness, so she says nothing and eats her vegetables.

A part of her still wonders _why_ —not why Hannibal is keeping her caged like an animal, she stopped asking herself that after the first night, but why he drugs her up.  She’s already a rag doll in a painted child’s bedroom, a marionette with the strings cut.

She guesses he wants to make sure she’ll stay sweet.

*

One day she wakes to see the door open and an angel enter the room.

She gasps, how could she _not_ with that sight in front of her—a statuesque figure haloed in pale yellow light, silvery-blonde hair glinting like liquid stars, white skin and white fabric.

Abigail rolls over on her bed, body loose and drugged, and reaches a hand out, breath still caught in a gasp.  “Take me,” she whispers, voice raw from going silent for so long.  “Take me away, please.  I’m ready.”

The figure, still bathed in blinding light, does not move.  Abigail hears a low, husky female voice say, “Hannibal, what have you done?” 

She closes her eyes.  Angels are for stories.

*

“Dr. Du Maurier is a close friend of mine,” Hannibal says, standing in front of the closed door.  Abigail lies in bed, back to her keeper, eyes still closed.  The shapes and colors on the back of her eyelids squirm in time with her heartbeat; the tea is good to her.  “I would like if you spoke to her.”

Abigail presses a palm to her ear, the one ear that isn’t just a gnarled deaf hole on the side of her head.  Hannibal’s voice grates on her nerves.  “Why?” she asks, voice too loud.

She doesn’t listen for his answer.  She doesn’t really care.

 _The angel will come again,_ she thinks, hand and pillow still muffling all the noise away.  _The angel will come and save me, because that’s how my story will end._

*

The next time she sees Bedelia Du Maurier, she’s sitting up next to her bed, trying to read the second book in some stupid young adult series she’s long outgrown.  Bedelia doesn’t bother knocking; she just turns the key and enters, closing the door tight behind her.  “Hello, Abigail.  How are you today?”

“Fine,” Abigail says, a blatant lie.  She puts her book down.  “Are you going to kill me?”

Bedelia blanches, her hands clenching where they’re clasped in front of her jacket.  Her eyes narrow a bit but she betrays no emotion, her face smooth like a doll’s.  “No, Abigail.  I’m not going to kill you.”

Abigail takes a moment to stare.  She has no concern for being rude; it doesn’t matter anymore.  Bedelia’s hair is gently curled, her eyes like chips of ice.  She wears high silver heels with a dark blue skirt and jacket.  She’s the most beautiful woman Abigail has ever seen up close, and she wants to savor it.  There is little beauty left in her life.

“Are you going to get me out of here?”  Abigail refused to eat the night before, her stomach hurt from menstrual cramps.  The tea doesn’t melt through her veins, making her soft and compliant. 

Bedelia sighs.  “I’m afraid not.”

Abigail nods and picks up her book again, the words swimming together behind her tears.  “Then I don’t have anything to say to you.”

*

But Bedelia comes back.  She comes back days-weeks-months later and sits on the edge of Abigail’s bed, prim and neat like the tiny room will infect her if she becomes too invested.

“Come here,” she says.  A command, not a question.

Abigail sits on the floor again, same unread book in her lap.  “Why?”

Bedelia raises an eyebrow.  She opens her leather purse and removes three things: a pair of pink iPod ear buds, a red bag of Skittles, and a yellow pill container.

Abigail walks over to Bedelia on her knees.  She takes the pill container first.  “What are these?”

“Vicodin,” Bedelia says.  “They’ll help with your menstrual cramps.”

Abigail frowns; she was hoping for something better.  “What if I just overdose?  Kill myself?”

Bedelia shrugs.  “You won’t.”  She unclasps her silver watch from her wrist and sets it on Abigail’s night table.  “Keep this hidden.”

*

Bedelia comes every day after that.  Abigail can count the days again, she tracks the hours on Bedelia’s watch, writes down the tallies on the inside of her thigh with washable marker where Hannibal won’t see.

Soon, Abigail cannot remember her life before Bedelia Du Maurier.  Bedelia is beautiful, she’s strong, she’s light in the dark.

Abigail dreams of kissing her.  Kissing her in the daylight, under the sun, away from her life in the basement bedroom.  It takes over her dream about Sweden with the man she hardly remembers, it takes over everything.

Abigail thinks this is enough, so she stops drinking the tea.

*

It’s not enough.

Abigail buries her face in Bedelia’s skirt.  It’s nice and expensive, a heavy cream linen, but Abigail cries and doesn’t care if it stains.  Her crying isn’t what it used to be—she used to sob, cry in heaves and waves like a child, now the tears just come out like she’s a broken sink; they fall without permission or grace. 

“Dr. Du Maurier,” she whispers into Bedelia’s skirt, voice shaking.  She doesn’t want to ask but she needs to, her heart will beat out of her chest if she doesn’t.  “Is Dr. Lecter going to kill me?”

Bedelia sucks in a breathe, sharp and cold, and her fingers tighten in Abigail’s hair for only a moment before she resumes stroking Abigail’s long, thick braid.  Abigail expects a lie, well-crafted and clipped.  Instead, Bedelia exhales and says, “Yes, sweet girl.  Dr. Lecter is going to kill you.”

Abigail nods slowly, biting her bottom lip, the tears still flowing.  She bunches her hands in Bedelia’s skirt, and Bedelia just strokes her hair, smooth and gentle, like she’s hushing a dying animal before they administer the drugs.  “When?”

“I don’t know,” Bedelia whispers, one hand curling around the back of Abigail’s neck, warm and protective.  Her fingers shake.  “Most likely when it will hurt the most.”

Abigail doesn’t know who Bedelia thinks Hannibal will hurt, but she knows it isn’t herself.

“I won’t let him,” Bedelia says, so softly Abigail wonders if she dreamed it.  But Bedelia’s lips graze Abigail’s ear, her voice warm and sweet.  “I _will_ get you out of here.”

That’s the last time Abigail ever sees Bedelia Du Maurier.

*

Abigail waits for her angel.  She waits, but her angel never comes.

Hannibal gives her a dose of something, something stronger than the tea that makes her head ache and her bones shake, something that makes her world feel even more dark and nightmarish than before.  She’s walking down a dark hallway, the windows are shut and splattered with rain, and she smells blood on the air.

“Hannibal?” she whispers into the dark.  The lights flicker and go out. 

 _Come with us,_ voices say around her, sweet and girlish, the girls she helped murder.  _You belong with us, Abigail_.

“Stop,” Abigail gasps, closing her eyes, crying like a child. 

“Abigail?”

It’s a real voice this time, low and afraid at the end of the hallway.  Abigail thinks she remembers it but she’s not sure, she remembers a lot of voices that faded too quickly.  _Not my angel, not my savior.  Not my light at the end.  Too much dark, too much rain._

The figure approaches, the women with the low, dark voice, and she’s dressed in dark clothes, she has dark hair, the dimness making Abigail’s spine prickle with fear.  She might as well have horns growing from her silky hair, a scythe in her hands to slice Abigail open.

She holds a gun, points it at Abigail.  Says her name again.

_I’m not dying without my angel._

She takes two long strides and pushes the dark figure.  Glass shatters, the rain comes in and splatters against Abigail’s cheeks.

She exhales slowly and turns around, facing the dark hallway once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Florence & the Machine's "Cosmic Love"


End file.
